Chasing Providence
by A Word Smithy
Summary: With each day came a new horror. I feared that the arena would be my final reality. What with the choices I'd been making, I wouldn't be surprised. Cato/OC


Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

Chapter 1

I crouch on the ground, my hands held protectively in front of my face. Blood drips down my arm, pooling in my lap. This is the clearest I have felt in days, and yet, it is the moment in which I am about to die. The sun glints off his blond hair, and, in that moment, I know he is going to kill me.

The knife falls.

_3 weeks earlier_

I wake as I always do; hacking and coughing from the smoke that the blankets taped over my window fail to keep out. Mrs. Yarnn, the head of the orphanage, thinks it is too late to save my lungs, and therefore not worth any time.

She thinks few things are worth any time.

Today is reaping day, but it also marks something much more important. My birthday is now less than a week away. I will turn eighteen, and with that, will hopefully manage to adopt Flax, and get the hell out of here. Flax, like me, has problems in his lungs, but at eleven, he is going to die soon unless I can get him the proper medical care. Mrs. Yarnn rarely brings any form of doctors into the orphanage, and, when she does, it's mainly for the beautiful ones, like Lisle and Cotton. The ones that might actually help her someday.

It makes me sick.

I feel creaky and old, much past my seventeen years as I hobble over to the cracked sink and mirror and splash some water on my face. Soot covers most of the mirror, but I can see bits and pieces of my face through the ash.

I look grey, like the rest of the district. Sometimes, I wonder if the smoke itself seeped through my skin when it went into my lungs. My hair is colorless; it was once reddish blond but has turned grey with soot and smaug. My eyes are grey and milky, and my skin is so thin you can see the veins through it.

I draw my eyes away, keeping them strictly trained down for the remainder of my wash. I think I might be up early, so I take some extra time removing the dirt from beneath my fingernails and brushing my teeth.

Back when I was younger, before the accident, this used to be me and father's music day. This is the one time the factories are turned off, so we used to celebrate by sitting down with our fiddles and playing, letting the notes flow, and sometimes even dancing.

I have not danced in a long time, though sometimes I play the fiddle when Flax asks. He's been here longer than I have, ever since he was a wee babe, and he get's so few pleasures in life anyway.

My reaping outfit is the same as it's been the past few years, a black skirt that succeeds both in being too short and too loose. It was Lisle's, I think, and since at 5'3 Lisle is half a foot shorter than I, with actual meet on her bones, I feel like an abandoned toy, or crone. However, the shirt I wear was father's, the only thing besides the fiddle I have left of his, and though it is a simple whiteand and blue flannel, almost too casual, I take pleasure in tucking my hands into the sleeves. Refusing to look at myself in the mirror again, my hair is left down with some clips holding it back above each ear.

I look the same as I have in the past, but I am changed. I am determined. I will make it through today, staying strong for Flax, who is afraid of the reaping next year, and then I will turn eighteen and be free, taking him with me.

I'm too close to bare it if anything goes wrong.

It's a long, harried walk from the orphanage to city central, as we live out by the factories, and they host the reaping's down by wear the rich people live, where there's actually more then just a yard of grass and the air doesn't reek of chemicals and smoke. Flax clutches my hand tightly; we'll have to split up later, when he goes to watch, and I go into what is commonly referred to as the pen. Because my birthday happens before anyone technically goes into the arena, they rank my age as eighteen, not seventeen. I remember I found it to be rather intimidating the first time, craning to see over the heads of the almost thirteen year olds who had almost hit their growth spurt.

I watch in morbid fascination as the capitol attendee pricks my finger, somehow drawing blood from my colorless skin. She smears a patch of it, bright red in a way that makes me sick, next to the name Ashmore, Lacey, and that's it, I'm done. Waving to Flax, who is tearing up, I mouth _I'll be fine, _and go file in next to the other girls. I'm almost a head taller than most of them, and I can see clear up to the stage, even though we're at the back of the pen. District 8 is big; I'm continuously surprised by the way they manage to fit us all in here.

"Attention, Attention Everyone!" A trilling, high voice cuts through the crowd as we all settle in. Gretchen Hayberry has been our escort for as long as I can remember, though with her bright orange hair and heavily powered skin, she looks exactly the same as she has the past years. I could not guess her age. 27? 52? Who knows?

She launches into the mind boring speech about what 'an honor' this is, and, 'what a tradition', they introduce the past victors, our mayor, a man who I don't think has ever seen more than the upper district 8, makes a speech, rambling on and on about the bravery and courageousness of our district, we watch a propaganda video that we see very year, and then it's time for the reaping. By this point, I'm so mind-bogglingly bored by the repetition of it all that I don't even register what name she calls for the girl.

"Ashmore, Lacey."

I look around, trying to figure out whom the poor chap is. For some reason, a lot of people seem to be looking at me.

She repeats it again, just a strain of irritation coming into her voice.

"Ashmore, Lacey."

And that's when it hits me.

That's me.

She's just called my name.

I must look as if I might be about to faint, because I few peacekeeper nudge their way into the pen and grip me around the shoulders, pulling me out into the aisle.

I'm going to die.

I, Lacey Ashmore, am going to die.

Just as I clear the steps, I feel a wrench in my gut.

And then I throw up all over the peacekeeper standing next to me, in front of all of Panem. If I wasn't so engrossed in how I'd be dead in a few weeks, I'd probably be blushing.

I stare seemingly ahead, vomit caught on my chin. Slowly, I reach up and wipe it away. Am I going crazy? Yes, I think I might be, because I am going to die.

Somewhere in here, the peacekeeper steps away, presumably to wipe the vomit off. Gretchen shakes my non-vomit covered hand, presumably trying to pretend she's not stuck with the useless corpse tribute that just humiliated herself all over live television. She calls the boy's name next, a skinny fourteen-year-old named John. I don't recon either of us will make it far in this game, and from the dejected way Gretchen makes us shake hands and face the crowd as they clap monotonously, I don't think she does either.

Nope, after that little display, I doubt anyone will be betting on me.

We're then escorted into the Justice Hall, as the mayor makes a wrap up speech. This is the time they're giving us to cry, and give our last good bye to loved ones. I don't think anyone's going to come, but as I sit in an armchair, staring at a light and trying not to sob, Flax bursts in.

"Oh, Buddy". I give him a hug, stroking his black hair. I want to tell him it'll be okay, but he's a smart kid, and he has to know what everyone else in Panem knows. I will not be coming out of this alive.

We sit like this for a bit, me quietly stroking his hair while he sobs into my chest, until a peacekeeper comes to tell me time is up. As he leads sobbing Flax away, I realize too late that there was so much more to say. I needed to warn him, give him some advice about what to do if the coughing gets worse. In the end, all I manage is a choked "I love you" before the door closes.

I burst into tears.

Because of this, I don't notice when the door opens again, and the person has to make a few throat clearing noises. I look up, expecting it to be a peacekeeper here to take me to the train, but instead it's a woman.

It takes me a few seconds to place her, with her dark brown eyes and even darker hair, but I recognize her as Ms. Paylor, a woman who used to work with my father. I had not seen or thought of her in several years, but she used to visit us a lot. Father and her would go into the back rooms, and talk about 'grown up stuff'. I always wanted to ask him about it, but never got around to it.

"Lacey."

I look at her, throat too choked with tears to say anything.

"Here" She says, holding out her palm. "Your father would have wanted you to have this."

I reach out and carefully take from her a small gold band, a ring. It's by far the most luxurious thing I've held in my hand for a long time, and I hold it delicately, almost afraid I'll break it. There's a pattern woven into the gold with diamonds, unclear and tarnished. However, it almost reminds me of a set of musical notes. Carefully, I slip it onto my ring finger. It fits perfectly.

"It was your mothers." Ms. Paylor says softly.

I am at a loss as to what I should say. Thank you? Why did you wait till now to give this to me? What did you and my father used to talk about? But then a peacekeeper enters; saying that the train is here, and that I need to go. As he leads me towards the door, Ms. Paylor turns to me, a flushed look in her eyes.

"Lacey. In the arena. Remember-"

But then the door slams shut.

**A/N **

**And that's the end of the first chapter of my Hunger Games fic! We didn't get very much information when it came to Lacey, but I hope you enjoyed what you saw. Yes, this will be a Cato/OC story, so if that isn't your thing, I'm sorry. My chapters will typically be longer then this, but I find the reaping done better short and sweet, so... **

**(for those of you reading my Hobbit fanfiction, I'll be updating it soon. This is just another story I've been working on that I wanted to get out before school starts)**

**Leave your concrit to tell me what you think! **


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